


Clipped

by thayde



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Realism, One Shot, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thayde/pseuds/thayde
Summary: Once is all it takes.





	Clipped

Garrick sees her on the sidewalk, form hunched and sharp, and he _knows_. Sees the anger and hurt and pain all at once, as only another Clipped can.

He takes her home.

* * *

There aren’t that many of them in the world—people born with wings. They aren’t rare either—they’re not unicorns, for God’s sake—but you don’t see one everyday. It’s difficult to gage how many of them there actually are. He can buy wing-friendly clothing online, but he’s never seen them sold in a brick and mortar shop in his life.

Which is why Garrick’s always found it odd running into as many like him as he does.

* * *

Handing her a glass of lemonade, they recline on the deck chairs. She’s in borrowed clothing, clean, and fed. He’s not sure where to start; turns out he doesn’t need to.

“You had them, didn’t you?” she asks, “At one time.”

Smiling sadly, he nods. “My Da cut them, when I was a little younger than you are now.” Garrick’s mouth twists. “An act of love.” _His father’s words_.

“You sound bitter. I’d be.” She snorts. “I am.”

Garrick sighs, and looks out into the woods beyond his backyard. His father was fairly righteous for a man of the cloth. He can’t quite grasp the irony he knows is there.

* * *

“Are your parents looking for you?”

She gives him a Look, in that superior way only a teenager can. _Are you stoned, or just stupid,_ it asks.

* * *

Garrick learns her name four days after he meets her. Hope, named for her mother, and her mother’s mother, and so on. None of those women survived childbearing, and that strikes a chord—it reverberates like a ringing bell in Garrick’s brain.

“They all had wings. Family trait, apparently.” She takes another bite of her chicken cacciatore.

Garrick learns that if he feeds her dinner and shuts his mouth, Hope will talk forever. She can’t stand the silence, so she fills it with her story.

“I was trying to pay for college. My little brother is smart—like, straight-A, MENSA material—but me? Not so much. No scholarships in sight. I just wanted….” She trails off, staring at her raised fork.

“You miss him.”

Hope nods.

“Why don’t you call him? You can use my phone.” He knows she won’t take it. She wouldn’t be here if she wanted to call home.

“They filmed it. I don’t want my family to see…I know I agreed to be filmed.” Water starts to pool in her eyes. “I was prepared for that.” Blinking quickly, she sets her fork down. “But I never agreed to—for them to—.”

Hope pushes her plate away, and swipes an arm across her face. Doesn’t say a word before retreating to the guest room—her room, until she decides otherwise.

Cleaning the dishes is robotic. He thinks over her stumbled words, and pieces together an ugly picture. Garrick wonders how many illegal websites posted her Clipping. What did they use to do it? How much blood was there? Did they numb her joints, or just tie her down and let her scream?

Did they pluck her feathers first?

* * *

Garrick dreams of familiar hands, pulling, plucking—a man gorging on feathers. Every fluff yanked from his back is a pinprick of hyper-focused agony. Unexpected betrayal.

He wakes up biting his pillow and wants nothing more than to heal Hope.

* * *

“You know what’s fucked up?” It's days later, but she's picking up the conversation like it happened moments ago.

Garrick cocks his head to the side. “Tell me.”

She stares at the wall, lips curved in a strange downward arch. “It was only going to be once.”

“Once is all it takes.”

* * *

“I could fly again?” The naked hope is heartbreaking, because in her soul she’s still so _angry_ —and that dramatically lowers her chances of recovery. She’s all of seventeen years old, pissed as hell, and so very impatient. That vicious tangle of emotion will work against her at every turn.

“There are ways.” Garrick shrugs. “Some good, some bad.” His eyebrows squeeze together in apology. “None of them easy, or quick.” Long road ahead of her. So long.

They sit in silence as she absorbs the news and all its implications. Looking him in the eyes, she asks “You got your wings back, then?”

He nods, mouth a thin line. “I did.” Flexing his shoulders back, he shivers as the feathers fold away beneath his skin, dissipating from the physical world. They bunch along his spine, and rustle in an anticipation that Garrick won’t fulfill.

Tilts her chin up, issuing a challenge that echoes familiarly. “Why haven’t I seen you fly then? You haven’t even let them out once since I’ve been here.”

Garrick’s honest with her. “Because I’m afraid to lose them again.” Shocked at the wistfulness lacing his own words, he stills. The feathers under his flesh puff, indignant. _What are we for, if not flying?_

She softens. “Even after all these years?”

“Not as long as you might think.” After all, he never specified how many times he’d lost them.

* * *

“I _can’t_!”

“You _won’t_.”

“It’s like you’re on their side. Like you think what they did is okay!”

“Of course I don’t! It’s inexcusable. But you have to let it go if you want your wings back. That anger, that hate, that want for vengeance—it all weighs you down. Those things are stones around your neck. You’ll never get off the ground that way.”

Her breathing is harsh, brittle, _edged_. “They mutilated me. They _filmed_ it. How am I supposed to forgive that?!”

Shrugs a shoulder, unrepentant. “Figure it out.”

Hope doesn’t speak to him for three days.

* * *

Cooking together turns out to be therapeutic for both of them. Hope chops the vegetables, and Garrick mans the frying pan. With their heads bowed over their own tasks, the flow of words becomes unfettered.. The _chop chop chop_ of the knife lulls them into conversation.

“How did you forgive your dad?” _Chop chop chop_.

Garrick throws a heavy dash of paprika into the sizzling pan. “I decided I wanted to fly more than I wanted to be angry.”

The chopping stops.

Hope swans over and adds more of the red spice to the cooking meat. Her eyebrow is twitching. “Just like that, huh?”

“If only.”

She returns to her cutting board, and Garrick gives the pan a good shake. _Chop chop chop_.

* * *

The dining room table is small, round, and scarred from years of use. Their plates of stir-fry take up most of the space, and they eat bent into each others’ spaces.

“Why don’t I ever see you fly?” Burning eyes lock onto the side of Garrick’s face.

He doesn’t look up. “Because I don’t.”

Hope takes a dainty bite of chicken that’s spiced to hell and back. “Never?”

Taking his sweet time to swallow his food, Garrick shrugs. “Not anymore.” Sighs, sets his fork down, and meets her eyes. “I’m too afraid of Falling.” He says it like a sin.

Hope scoffs, like he’s ridiculous, and waves her own for in the air. “So don’t fly so high.”

_That’s not what I meant_ , he thinks, though he himself is unsure of his own meaning.

Resting her arms against the table, Hope stares at him solemnly. “If I get them back, I’ll fly every day.”

Garrick grants her a warm smile. “I hope so.”

* * *

“I remember you.”

He smiles, because she’s the first one who has, even a little. “But we’ve never met.” He doesn’t remember her, merely the idea of knowing her once. “Are you quite certain?” That playful smile lingers on his lips like a balm.

“I’m sure we have.” Her face scrunches. “Not now, but, before…Before.”

“Before what?” He’s curious. He remembers too, but doesn’t. _Not yet_ , tempts a whisper in his soul.

She screws up her face in concentration, and he recognizes the slip when he sees it.

“Don’t strain. The more you fight to remember, the more you forget. Like quicksand.”

Her face releases abruptly, falling straight into frustration and unshed tears. “What if I _want_ to forget.”

He spreads his wings for the first time in years. The muscles ache from the long stretch of disuse. He extends one forward, so the flight feathers would gently brush along her arm. “Do you really?”

She doesn’t say anything.

* * *

The Before time--his heart swells and falls at the thought.  He recalls the warmth, and the bright shapes, and the _sounds_ …oh, the sounds.  Choirs of colorful tones that could lift the very air.  He hears it now and then, when something reminds him.

Garrick doesn't think very hard on it, though, lest he forget.  He remembers more each day, so long as he doesn't seek.  Like glancing out the corner of one’s eye.

* * *

He finds the video—some link buried in the shittiest part of Liveleak—and forces himself to watch it all. Halfway through, he vomits in the waste basket by his computer desk. Hope will never fly again. Not after that.

It doesn’t stop him from trying.

* * *

“There are days I can’t get off the ground.” Secrets. He shares his shameful secrets, like it might do her some good.

“What?” Hope’s mind is dulling, slowing thoughts like quagmire. Garrick shares bits of his life in an effort to kickstart her again.

“Sometimes, when thinking of my father, I can't fly because of the bitterness over what he did.” He pauses, taking a long breath. “Other times, I can't fly because of Daniel. What he _took_ from me.” The new name rouses her curiosity, as he’d hoped it would.

His little trick doesn’t fool her. Hope’s soul is old, and she recognizes bait when she hears it. Sometimes, he feels like she’s older than him.

She exhales, shoulders slumping. “Tell me about Daniel, then.”

* * *

When he got his wings back the first time, he was joyous. His soul lit up like molten gold and the song in his heart was unending.

It took him ten years to forgive, to understand why his father would do that—how he could do that to his only child. _An act of love_ is what his Da claimed, pulling out the ropes and morphine and knives. Otherwise “They” would take him away.

“They” always seemed to step on people’s lives in one fashion or another. Every now and then a church would pop up with a collection of wings, sans bodies (in rare cases, _with_ bodies). He doesn’t know why (he never knows _why_ )—to own, to study, to worship? Perhaps they think the Winged are holy, but Garrick knows better than anyone just how holy they’re _not_.

Regardless of “Their” reasons, it still took a decade for Garrick to forgive. One entire decade of bitter anger, gnashing teeth, and railing at nothing and everything... A decade before his spine itched up an down each vertebrae, growing back his lost feathers.

And once he had them back….

Nothing could weigh him down, the joy so sharp it cleaved any dark thought into two or more pieces. He became the sharpest flier in the _country_. He could soar into a forest at breakneck speeds, wingspan tilted a full ninety degrees, and slip between the trees as though threading consecutive needles. Stronger, faster, _better_ than ever.

Then he met Daniel. Wings crushed in a car accident and the doctors had to amputate. Tragic stories linked to lovely faces—his kind seems to have trademarked that particular combination. Garrick empathized with the loss, and decided to help. He decided to share his good fortune.

They tried everything to move Daniel past the trauma. Therapy, isolation, weed…but there was too much anger in him, and not the righteous kind. It was vengeful, and each day that he failed to feel a new feather only served to fan the flames. A vicious cycle.

Everyday Daniel got wilder, and louder, and more sporadic—right until the day he wasn’t. He went hollow eyed and quiet. Garrick let him stroke his wings, because it seemed to help. But then Daniel started to stare at Garrick’s feathers while shuffling his fingers through them.

* * *

“You know what’s fucked up?” Garrick parrots Hope’s words back at her, smirking.

“Tell me.” She plays along.

“I knew something was wrong. But I thought…just this once. Daniel’s hurting, and he’s allowed to be creepy once.”

Hope nods. “Just once, huh?”

Smiling, Garrick rolls a shoulder. “That’s all it takes.”

* * *

Garrick never thought he’d consider his father’s way of taking wings to be the good way, but Daniel proved him wrong. Daniel did it the bad way, the worst way, and fuck if it didn’t put his father’s loving methods to shame.

Daniel made the tea that night, and Garrick had thought it was a good sign. A sign of healing and moving forward. It wasn’t.

Daniel had meant to slip him enough to make him sleep, but Garrick was awake through it all. Numb all over, and the world swimming before him, Garrick remembers vividly the sick feel of fingers prying his feathered bones from his back—pulling his wings out from under his skin and into reality. The desperate pull on his feathers until they popped out with screaming pinpricks. Daniel’s voice and the litany of _I’m sorry_ on a skipping track, muffled by his chewing—oh God, the _chewing_ —

* * *

He woke up, groggy, incomplete, and utterly alone.

* * *

Forgiveness came slower the second time. Once he got them back, Garrick wasn’t stupid enough to flash them around anymore.

He stopped helping his fellow fliers. Lesson well learned.

* * *

Nowadays, when he sees a Clipped, he just walks the fuck away. Over and over again, until, one day, he crosses path with this seventeen year old girl—barely more than a child—and he stops in his tracks.

Because seventeen is still much too young.

There’s no walking away from that.

* * *

Garrick starts letting his wings out, to tempt her. Brushing his feathers against Hope when she passes. She trails her fingers along the leading edges in greeting—to remind herself _why_ she’s fighting to overcome her situation. He keeps them out when they do the dishes, when they sit on the porch, when they breathe.

Sometimes she smiles. Other times….

* * *

“You could take mine for yourself. I could tell you how.” The look on Hope’s face almost makes him regret his words. He pushes on. “They’d grow back quickly, probably within a year. Because I wouldn’t regret it.”

Eyes wide, she takes a gulp of air. “But I would.” Takes a step back from him. “I would regret it every time I saw them.”

* * *

“I remember Before.” Hope starts. “Not _what_ there was, but that it was.”

If he hadn’t been watching her face so intently, Garrick might have missed the slip. “Don’t. The more you try to remember—“

“I remember you, and the others, I think.” She turns to look at him, eyes piercing in their intensity. “You flew magnificently. Do you still?”

Swallows thickly. “I still can.”

Hope blinks, and draws her eyebrows together. “You can what?”

“Fly.”

“Is that what we were talking about?” She murmurs, and shakes her head. “I must have drifted off, for a moment.”

Garrick’s voice is choked. “Please, don’t do this to yourself.” _To me._

But she does. She tells him everything she remembers until she forgets. Finally she turns to him and asks, “Who are you?”

* * *

Garrick hands over his name, again, and says that he came across her on the streets and decided to help her. “You should call your parents.”

She laughs at herself. “Yeah, I should. Why didn’t I?”

“I think you were…just nervous.” Looks away before he says something stupid. “Are you ready now?”

She twitches once, and blinks twice. “…Yes.”

* * *

Her father comes to pick her up. Little Brother wears a necklace with some small feathers on it, and Garrick wonders just how much that boy's lost alongside his sister’s wings.

* * *

That night, he dreams of soft gold and warm voices he’s never heard before, but sounding familiar none the less. He remembers more of the Before than ever.

* * *

Garrick makes dinner, and finds Hope had used up the paprika before she left. He walks out to the car to drive for more. Pauses.

_“If I get them back, I’ll fly every day.”_

Puts the keys in his pockets. Spreads his wings wide and takes to the sky.

* * *

A year later, in a hospital waiting room, he comes across Daniel again, and the bastard is wingless _again_. "You Fell."  He states.

"No shit I fell." The wings sagging from his back are broken in so many places, even the feather veins are mangled and bleeding.

That's not what he meant, but the difference between Fell and fell is already slipping away.

"No, I mean you fell."  Did he?  Why is fell any different from fell--

He stops thinking about it, so he can remember it later.

Daniel looks at him like he's tweaked out of his mind.  "Yeah, dumbass, I fell."  Huffs in pain.  "Right out of the sky.  Lost the fucking thermal.” He’s still the same bitter bastard Garrick knew before, twisted lips and desperate brow the same shape. But his eyes…there’s shame lurking at the edge of the pools—for having lost his own wings and then _someone else’s_.

The man can’t even look at Garrick directly.

His brain is screaming at him _don’t do it!_  But it's an urge now—a habit. That whisper in his heart—the one that reaches out to everyone and everything—says its the Right Thing To Do, and he should help _because_ it's the right thing. 

"If you promise not to steal my wings again,” he hears himself say, “I'll help you get yours back.”

It's a long shot, and a worthless promise. Daniel, so broken in all the right ways in the wrong places, may not have learned a fucking thing.  But Garrick can always grow his wings back anyway. Plenty of practice by now.  Besides, he remembers a little more every time—hears the choirs more acutely with every person he helps.  

* * *

_You have to forgive them._

He’s been telling Hope, Daniel, _himself_ , to learn forgiveness, but that’s not really it. It’s compassion. Compassion for the one who wronged you, to understand _why_ , and to _love_ them anyway.

To forgive an enemy is human, but to love one is angelic.

_Angelic_ …wait—

The ringing word slips away.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small attempt at an original short story. 
> 
> Please let me know how I can improve this work--betas welcome!


End file.
